fam fiction
Habits, Bad
By Gene Kwak
image uploaded by Jon Feinstein
Doris knew today was the day. Just get out of the car. Leave the comfort of steel and glass. Walk up the steps to the church. Enter. Dip her fingertips in the holy water and mimic the Stations of the Cross. Crane her eyes skyward to the emaciated Jesus, even higher still to the gorgeous fresco swathed along the vaulted apse. Cherubic angels and well-muscled saints, their naughty bits covered in nimbus clouds. Walk to the front aisle. Make eye contact with Juanita. Grip the hand of her son, Jerry, who was once so young himself, a baby swaddled in blankets at this very church. See the wide face of a grinning baby, russet-toned and dimpled with fat, the face she never agreed with but relegated herself to love.